The Art of Death
by Sleepwalking Dreamer
Summary: A serial killer is making the rounds in Las Vegas, copying the style of an incarcerated serial killer from Washington. Grissom and his team must work with the DC crime lab to solve these murders, before the killer strikes again.
1. Episode One: Wine and Murder

**The Art of Death**

_By: Sleepwalking Dreamer_

_A CSI: Crime Scene Investigation Fan Fiction_

DISCLAIMERS:

_CSI: Crime Scene Investigation _© A. Zuiker and CBS

Mercia Stella Fiammeta di Salmileri, Anthony Wright, Ciara Julia Celeste di Salmileri, and Alec Marvail © Sleepwalking Dreamer

Ami Tejada © Noelle Pico

Literary excerpts © their creators

NOTES:

Dan Brown's _The Da Vinci Code_ and _CSI_ are a most potent combination, especially if one happens to be a writer with a hyperactive imagination. The events preceding this fan fiction are drawn from Noelle Pico's original story, which is, at the moment, untitled and unpublished.

The villain I have used (who is, more or less, like the villain I created for Noelle's story) is not based on anyone I have heard of or anyone I have known in real life. Perhaps, one could say that this is my dark alter ego manifesting itself in my writing. Well, better merely as something on paper and in ink than someone in reality.

THANK YOU TO:

The people behind Project Gutenberg, for supplying the world with copies of the writings of the great literary masters for free

The visual and literary arts masters, whose works I have made use of here

Noelle Pico, for allowing me to borrow Ami Tejada

TEASER:

The body of a young woman has been found, walled with bricks and mortar into an alcove in the private wine cellar of a man living in the posh district of Las Vegas. Unfortunately for the Las Vegas CSI members, it seems that their suspect is a very clever and very intelligent person: no prints, no fibers, and no bodily fluids have been found on the crime scene. Their only clue is a computer printout containing a quote from Edgar Allan Poe's "The Cask of Amontillado."

Two weeks later, they are brought in once again to investigate another murder: this time, the victim is found sitting in a chair in the middle of her own family's mausoleum, at the local cemetery. Again, another computer printout is found with her, but containing a different quote: one culled from "Spirits of the Dead" - another poem by Edgar Allan Poe.

After this second murder, they get word from the CSI office in Washington DC that a series of murders exactly like the ones occurring in Las Vegas were committed in the Capital six months ago. Mercia di Salmileri, the CSI who worked the DC murders, has come down to Sin City to work with Grissom and his team over what has been dubbed the "Poe Murders." However, things get out of hand as another series of murders are committed - this time, following Dante Alighieri's _Divina Comedia_.

Two killers. Two targets. Grissom's team is suddenly split up over the two cases, running around in a wild goose chase in an attempt to find out whom the targets of these murders are. Unfortunately, it seems that even Grissom never realized that the real target was close at hand...

* * *

**Episode One: Wine and Murder**

_3:45 A.M. Thursday, November 13: Las Vegas_

She whimpered helplessly, the double padding of cloth and duct tape clamped over her mouth serving only to muffle her cries. She tried to struggle against the heavy iron chains that were bound around her waist, but she couldn't. The padlock clinked and clanked against the links, a reminder that she could not escape.

Unable to do anything, she stared at her kidnapper, who stared right back at her with cold, hard eyes.

She suddenly wished she hadn't been so stupid as to accept drinks from a total stranger. She knew that she should have kept her head, tried to make sure that she didn't get herself drunk. But the stranger had just kept on buying her drinks, and she just kept on drinking them.

But now, it was too late for regrets.

Just then, much to her surprise, her abductor began stepping back, moving away from her. Her heart leaped. Maybe she still had a chance.

Her kidnapper paused at the entryway of the alcove, staring at her for a long moment. Black-gloved fingers reached into the folds of the jacket, and pulled out a Ziploc plastic bag. Inside, she saw that there was a folded slip of bond paper. The kidnapper opened the bag, drew out the piece of paper, and dropped it at her feet.

She stared at the paper, completely bewildered. What was she supposed to do now?

She heard a soft shuffling sound, and she looked up at her abductor. Almost from out of nowhere, a bucket filled with something that looked like cement had materialized, along with a pile of bricks.

She watched, almost fascinated, as her kidnapper began to quickly yet efficiently layer together the concrete and bricks over the entrance of the alcove. There was the soft scraping sound of a trowel against stone as more concrete and bricks were placed, one on top of the other, over the entrance.

The layers had already reached half the height of the alcove when it hit her. She was being walled in. She was going to die.

She tried her best to scream, tried her best to make some sound, to do something to alert anyone at all to what was happening to her. She tried to slap the chains against the wall, tried to lift her legs, but she realized that she couldn't. The chains were just too heavy, and she felt too weak.

Eventually, the last brick slid into place, and all light was blotted out. And she knew then that she would die slowly.

Very, very slowly.

* * *

_3:24 P.M. Thursday, November 27: Las Vegas_

"And just who called the cops, and eventually us, out here, by the way?"

Nick Stokes shrugged his shoulders. "The owner, Mr. O'Leary. He called the pest exterminator this morning to have his wine cellar checked. Mentioned something about a dead rat. But then the exterminator came back, and said that it was probably not just a dead rat, because the smell was different. He said it smelled like-"

"A rotting corpse." Sara Sidle nodded her head. She glanced at the CSI: Las Vegas supervisor, Gil Grissom. "Gris, do rotting rats and rotting humans smell different?"

Grissom shrugged. "I suppose so. Variations in chemical composition, mostly from the food consumed, can make a difference in the scent of a decaying body. I suspect that someone who removes rats - dead or otherwise - from houses would know the smell of a dead rat from a dead human."

Nick chuckled wryly. "They all smell the same to me: bad."

Sara smiled, and shook her head. They had been called in to investigate what they suspected was a body in the wine cellar of Johann O'Leary, after the pest exterminator Mr. O'Leary hired said that there was something more than just a dead rat in the cellar. So now here they were, clambering down the steps that led to the underground wine cellar.

She stopped at the doorway, puzzled. "These look like the doors of a meat locker," she said as she ran a gloved hand over the doorframe.

"It's to maintain the temperature in the cellar," Mr. O'Leary - a man sometime in his sixties, with a half-bald pate and a jumpy manner to him - explained as they stepped in. "Wines have to be stored at a particular temperature, or else they go bad. And with Las Vegas weather fluctuating all the time, well..." He chuckled nervously, and then continued. "Building the cellar underground does around half the job for me already. The air circulation system and the doors keep everything at an optimal temperature for storage."

Nick squinted his eyes slightly as he glanced at the walls. "Why brick walls?"

"The brick is semi-porous, and lets the cellar breathe. Circulating recycled air is just as bad for the wine as the wrong storage temperature." That was Grissom now, and he was peering intently at the racks that contained bottles that were labeled as having come from the Champagne region of France.

Nick grinned. "Care to cite your source on that?"

Grissom gave him a level gaze. "Internet."

Sara was looking at the machines that were installed overhead. "All of this to make sure that you don't end up with some very expensive vinegar." The scent of wine was very potent here, almost intoxicating. She was no wine connoisseur, but she was absolutely positive that she was standing in a room filled floor to ceiling with some of the best vintages in the world.

But as she moved further down the narrow spaces between a rack of New Zealand's best pinot gris and Spanish Sherries, she was hit with a smell that was the exact opposite of the sweetness coming from the wine.

Nick, who was standing behind her, reacted with a wrinkle of the nose. "Unless someone has been down here and drinking these wines while eating some really funky cheese, I think we just smelled our victim."

Grissom came up behind them, sniffed the air, and frowned. "It's coming from over there." He pointed to the very end, between a rack of merlots and Cabernets.

Sara followed Grissom, and stared at the wall in front of her. Immediately, she knew that something was wrong. Turning to Mr. O'Leary, she asked, "Have you remodeled your cellar lately?"

"No, I haven't," Mr. O'Leary replied, blinking in a confused manner. "The last time I remodeled this, it was only to have it expanded."

"And just how long ago was this remodeling?"

"I don't know...three months ago, four, I suppose. I was away at Australia, going on a tour of the vineyards and wineries there. Why, what's the matter?"

Grissom pointed to the wall. "The color of the mortar between these bricks doesn't match the mortar used on the others. Based on that, I would say that this area of the wall was placed up much more recently than three months ago."

Nick frowned. "But the bricks are of the same color as the others, so that means that they are roughly the same age." He squinted his eyes. "Now the question is: who would have access to your cellar long enough to take down this wall, and then rebuild it?"

"I-I don't know," Mr. O'Leary squeaked. "There are security cameras over the cellar doors, and the house has alarms too - laser-triggered, top of the line. If anyone was going in and out of my house, I would have known about it, because the alarms would have gone off, or at the very least the cameras would have caught them."

Grissom nodded, and glanced at Nick. "Nick, you go and get the tapes from the last three months." He turned to Sara. "Sara, you go and get some tools. We're going to have to break this wall down."

Sara sighed, and nodded. "Going."

A few minutes later, Sara came back with chisels, hammers, and trowels. She handed a few to Grissom, took a chisel and a hammer herself, and the two of them started chipping away at the mortar that held the bricks together. They had to be very careful - after all, the bricks might contain some evidence of who had placed them there, and so they were evidence as well.

The first few rows of bricks had been taken down when the god-awful stench of rotting human filled the wine cellar. Even the strong, musky fragrance of the nearby bottles of wine didn't help keep away the stink. Sara coughed to clear the smell and mortar dust from the back of her throat, and went back to work.

Eventually, her hands aching and cramping from wielding the chisel and hammer, enough of the bricks had been cleared, revealing a small rectangular alcove behind it. This alcove, however, was not made of brick, but of concrete - a sure sign that it had not originally been a part of the cellar. There was also a part towards the back that looked like there had been a door there once, but it would take further investigation before they could confirm that.

Sara knew she had never seen a corpse like that before. It was a young woman - a little on the petite side, wearing slacks and a spaghetti-strap top, with a watch and a thin silver necklace around her throat, no pendant. Her mouth was covered with duct tape, and her feet were bound in the same manner as well. Her hands were behind her back, and Sara bet her salary that they had been bound using duct tape too.

But what was most troubling about the entire thing was the heavy iron chain that was tied around the victim's waist. It was one of those heavy-duty, industrial strength affairs that were used for gates. There was a padlock there as well - hooked through the links to make sure that they didn't fall off or slip out.

Her gaze fell on the floor, and she was most puzzled by what she saw: a folded piece of paper, there near the feet of the victim. She nodded towards it. "Gris, look."

Grissom followed the direction of her head, and frowned. He glanced at Sara questioningly. "What do you think it is?"

She shrugged in response. "Maybe a note from the vic? Or," here she smiled grimly, "something from the killer."

"It's the latter," Grissom said as he carefully picked up the paper from the floor. He looked it over. "Looks like your typical bond paper. Nothing special: no corporate letterheads, and no watermarks. Just plain bond paper."

"That you can find in a million bookstores," Sara said quietly. She knew what that meant: there was nothing unique enough about the paper that would give them a clue as to who the suspect - or the victim - could have been.

Going back into the clearer light of the cellar, Grissom delicately unfolded the paper on the floor. Sara knew that he - the both of them - were hoping that whatever was placed on the paper, it would be handwritten, and thus give them another vital clue to the identity of the suspect.

There was no such luck, however, because the contents of the paper were computerized. But that didn't quite grab Sara's attention at the moment. It was what was written that did:

_"For the love of God, Montresor!"_

_"Yes," I said, "for the love of God!"_

Sara blinked. That sounded familiar, she thought. "I know I've heard that somewhere before. I just don't remember."

Grissom stared hard at the paper. "For the love of God, Montresor... Yes, I said, for the love of God... That's a quote from Edgar Allan Poe's 'The Cask of Amontillado'." He looked back at the body in the alcove, and Sara noticed his lips tighten.

Just then, Nick came back. "Hey Gris, I got the tapes from the-holy shit." He coughed, and covered his nose. "So that's where the smell was coming from, eh?" He squinted at the body. "Jesus, who did that to her?"

"That's what we're trying to find out," Sara replied as she stood up, brushing off the mortar dust from her clothes. "Grissom found something on the floor near the girl's feet: a computer printout."

"Really? What does it say?"

In reply, Grissom handed the paper to him. "It's a quote from a short story written by Edgar Allan Poe, entitled 'The Cask of Amontillado'."

Nick blinked as he looked at the paper. "I think I read that when I was in high school. Something about a guy getting walled up in a wine cellar-" He stopped, and stared at the girl in the alcove. "I do not believe this..."

Sara squinted at the body. "Looks like we have ourselves a serious psychopath, folks."

Grissom straightened up slowly, never taking his eyes off the body. "Let's get an ID on her as soon as we can. Something in my gut tells me that this is going to be a long case."

* * *

_1:39 A.M. Friday, November 28: Washington_

He sighed, and rubbed his eyes tiredly. It was another long night in the DC branch of CSI, and he was only too glad to be on his way home. He didn't expect to be working so late that he had already started his day-off in the office.

Time to close up shop, he thought as he picked up his jacket, slid it on, and made his way out of the office. It was a rather slow, quiet night, and for that he was only too glad. It meant that there was no trouble in DC, and for that he was always very grateful.

Hard to believe that, almost six months ago, both the day and graveyard shifts had been hard at work, putting together all the effort that they could manage to solve just one case: what was known in official records as the Landowe murder case, but what the media had dubbed as the "Poe Murders."

But now that case was finally over and done with, and everyone was very much relieved.

He smiled as he passed by the lab, and peered through the glass doors at the person inside. He knew that there was no one more relieved than the one sitting at the table, peering through a microscope.

He waited for her to peel her eyes away from the microscope before he pushed at the doors so that his head was inside the lab. "Mercy?"

Mercia di Salmileri looked up, chocolate brown eyes peering at him curiously. "Yes, Tony?"

Anthony Wright, supervisor of the Washington crime lab, smiled at the young woman. "I thought that you had already gone back home."

Mercy shrugged, and gestured to the microscope. "I needed to check these samples again before I left. Just wanted to be sure."

"Really? What do you have?" Tony stepped into the lab, and peered into the microscope. After adjusting the lenses, he saw what looked like several sharp red sickles.

"These are blood cells we took from our suspect," Mercy explained. "As you can see, the red blood cells are unusual. They're a genetic anomaly in some people. Causes what is called sickle-cell anemia - after the shape of the cells themselves. They evolved in people as a natural defense against malaria."

Tony nodded as he moved away from the microscope. "I see. And you compared this with the blood found in the victim's car?"

Mercy nodded, and proceeded to produce two photographs. "This was the one taken of the cells from the car." She gave him a photo of the cells in the microscope. "And these," she passed him another photograph that looked very similar to the first one, "was taken of the suspect's blood cells. As you can see, they match."

"Ah. But this is-"

"Not enough to convict him of murder, I know, but I've sent them in for DNA testing. The results should be in by tomorrow."

Tony smiled. "Very good." He looked over his shoulder at the hallway, and when he saw no one there, he turned back to Mercy, and gave her a mischievous smile. "Darling, you look tired. What say you and I go to my place, I turn on the Jacuzzi, and we settle down to some good champagne and quality time, hmm?"

Mercy's face softened with a coy smile. "You are making me a very indecent proposal, Mr. Wright. What makes you think I'll fall for it?"

Tony's smile became even wider when he felt her stocking-clad toes skim beneath the hem of his trousers to rub against his ankle. It was the game they always played in the office: they had to be professional and indifferent to one another when they were working, but outside...well, these "games" they played with each other in the office were almost as good as foreplay in the bedroom.

And to think, they had never been like this until six months ago.

He leaned forward, and whispered in her ear, "You playing footsie is all the proof I need. How long has it been since we last..." He trailed off, knowing that she would understand his words.

"Hmmm, nearly three months," Mercy replied, her voice soft.

"Well now, don't you think we both deserve a break?" He frowned slightly. "Or is it that time of the month again?"

She smiled apologetically. "It's that, actually, or I wouldn't be able to say no." She withdrew her foot, slid it back into her shoe, and stood up. "I suppose you're right, there's nothing much I can do for this now except wait for the DNA results." She picked up her jacket, swung it around, and slid her arms into the sleeves. After adjusting the collar, she turned once more to look at him, and she smiled. "So, do I take my car, or am I to go with you?"

He smiled slightly at her as they headed out of the lab, and towards the parking lot. "Depends on where we're going: your house or mine."

"I have my period, Tony. You know what that means."

"Hey, can't the words 'sleep with you' mean anything other than sex when it comes to the two of us?"

"Your sheets might end up ruined."

"That's what the dry cleaners is for."

She was laughing, though now she didn't really argue with him. "I don't have any clothes with me."

"Then I'll lend you one of my shirts. You always did look very sexy in my clothes."

They were in the parking lot now, and that was probably why she had enough courage to reach out and slap him on his rear. "You evil man you!"

He gave her a teasing look as he slid his car key into the lock. "And is slapping butts an Italian custom, or is that just you?"

She made a face. "It's pinching butts, not slapping them, and it's not a typically Italian custom. But you'd be surprised how appreciative we can be of a nice, tight ass."

"Ah. And is that what attracted you to me in the first place?"

"I was going to say that it was your intelligence and wit, but after you said that, I decided not to make your ego even bigger than it already is."

He chuckled, and waited for her to slide into the passenger's seat beside him before he leaned over, and kissed her gently on the corner of her mouth. He lingered a while, and then pulled back, sticking the key into the ignition and starting up the car. Once he heard the purr of the engine, he turned to glance at her, smiling. "Your house or mine?"

"I really couldn't care less," she murmured tiredly as she strapped herself into the seat, and rested her head against the window, her eyes closing in sleep.

He smiled, and shook his head as he peeled out of the parking lot, and headed for his house.


	2. Episode Two: Cryptic Irony

**Episode Two: Cryptic Irony**

_2:17 A.M. Thursday, November 20: Las Vegas_

It felt as if cold water was being poured constantly down her back. There were three things that she was scared of: the dark, enclosed spaces, and the dead.

Unfortunately, all those elements had been combined here.

This is a nightmare, she told herself as she swallowed against the gag over her mouth, and closed her eyes. This was a dream, and if she told herself to wake up, she would.

But when she opened her eyes, the scene around her had not changed. And then she realized that she was not dreaming at all. This was real, as real as anything could ever be.

And that...person had taken her here.

She had been completely, utterly stupid. She shouldn't have been so willing to trust, shouldn't have been so willing to accept that promise of more E. Hell, it was because of E that she had gotten here in the first place, and she promised to God that if she would only make it out of here alive, she would never touch the stuff again.

She felt deft fingers go around her waist, removing the belt that helped keep her jeans up around her hips. She tried to turn around, but almost instantly, she felt the leather go around her neck before it was cinched tight.

She coughed, and tried to clear her throat, but it was to no avail. Her air intake was limited all of a sudden, and she struggled, trying to find a way to help her breathe easier, but the more she moved, the more the noose tightened around her neck.

The last thing she saw before she blacked out was the figure of her kidnapper placing a folded piece of paper at her feet, and then leaving through the elaborate wrought iron gate.

* * *

_4:30 P.M. Thursday, December 4: Las Vegas_

Nick frowned as he looked around at the crime scene. "An oddly appropriate place to commit a murder, don't you think?"

"No better place to deal with death," Sara said with a sigh.

Just then Grissom appeared from the interior of the mausoleum. He waved towards the inside. "I think you should come and see this."

Nick glanced at Sara momentarily before the two of them headed into the mausoleum. And the moment they did so, a rather gruesome sight confronted Nick.

The victim - a girl - was sitting in a chair, but a belt had been tied around her neck in such a way that if she so much as struggled to free herself, the makeshift noose would tighten and strangle her all the more.

"That's simply cruel," Sara muttered beside him as she slowly approached the body. She glanced at the victim's feet, and scowled. "The bastard made sure that she would struggle so she could strangle herself. Her feet are bound to the chair legs."

Nick frowned. "I'm getting a really weird sense of deja vu from this,"

"You should," Grissom said as he walked up to them. In his hand, he was holding a piece of bond paper. "Looks like we got another message from our mystery serial killer."

"You mean the guy who did this is the same one who killed Nancy di Gallo?" Sara asked as she looked up from where she was crouched next to the chair. Nancy di Gallo was the name of the girl they had found in the wine cellar a few weeks ago.

Nick blinked. "You mean the person who killed di Gallo was the same person who killed this one?" He glanced at the current victim, took note of the strangulation device, and turned back to Grissom, puzzled. "It's not the same MO."

Grissom shook his head. "No, but whoever the killer was, he left us another note." Here, he held out the paper he had been holding.

Nick took the sheet of paper, and unfolded it. Like the note that had been found near Nancy di Gallo, it was computerized text printed on ordinary bond paper.

Nick read out the contents as Sara stepped up beside him so she could read as well:

"_Thy soul shall find itself alone_

_'Mid dark thoughts of the gray tombstone_

_Not one, of all the crowd, to pry_

_Into thine hour of secrecy._

_Be silent in that solitude_

_Which is not loneliness--for then_

_The spirits of the dead who stood_

_In life before thee are again_

_In death around thee--and their will_

_Shall overshadow thee: be still."_

"That quote is from the poem 'Spirits of the Dead,' written by Edgar Allan Poe," Grissom explained. "Those are the first ten lines of the poem."

Nick controlled a shiver. "This is getting really creepy Gris," he muttered. "Who would even think to use Edgar Allan Poe's writing as a source of inspiration for murder?"

"A psycho, that's what," Detective Jim Brass said as he came up behind them. When he had their attention, he continued, "We just identified the girl: name's Evelyn Tyler, college student from California, though her family's from here. Came here with a couple of friends for the weekend. Went out for a drink around two weeks ago, and never came back. Her friends were the ones who filed the missing-person's report." His lips curled wryly. "Oddly enough, this is her family's mausoleum."

Sara grimaced. "Well, that certainly fits in with the lines of the poem."

Brass nodded, making a small sound of assent. After a thoughtful silence, he turned to Grissom. "Grissom, can I talk to you for a second?"

The senior CSI blinked, but nodded. "Nick, Sara, check the place for any more evidence - though if this was committed by the same person who killed Nancy di Gallo, I doubt if there will be any more. But check it all the same."

Nick nodded, and looked at Sara. "You take the left half, I'll take the right."

"Sure thing."

* * *

Grissom followed Brass to a quiet place behind the mausoleum. When the detective stopped, he did as well, placing his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "Something you wanted to tell me?"

Brass gave him an even look. "I just got a piece of news from the crime lab in Washington."

"Really?" Grissom raised an eyebrow. "What's DC got to do with this?"

"A lot. Apparently, six months ago they had a case that ran the same way."

Now Grissom was interested. "What do you mean?"

"There was a spate of serial killings there around six months ago," Brass explained. "The media had dubbed them the 'Poe Murders' because of the notes that were left on or near the victims when they were found."

"And did they solve it?"

"That's the point: they did. The killer's already been caught and is behind bars."

Grissom's eyes narrowed as another thought occurred to him. "Then we're dealing with a copycat killer."

Brass nodded. "Exactly what I was thinking. The supervisor of the DC crime lab, Anthony Wright, is sending the CSI who cracked the case, along with the files and documentation of their investigation."

"I see," Grissom muttered. The way things were going, they could possibly need all the help they could get. He glanced at the mausoleum. If this was, indeed, the work of a copycat killer, then someone who had worked on the original case might be able to predict what would happen next - and that would help them catch the killer before he had the chance to strike again.

He looked at Brass. "Did they say anything about when they were coming?"

* * *

_6:19 P.M. Sunday, December 7: Las Vegas_

"I cannot believe he said that! 'The air is cleaner in Sheffield' my butt!" Ami Tejada slammed her hand against the dashboard in front of her in frustration.

Mercy spoke up then. "Ami, chill. I know how you feel about this, and trust me, I'm on your side."

Ami turned to her best friend, who was currently driving. "Why couldn't he be more like you?"

"He's my half-brother, Ami. That should explain why we're so dissimilar." Mercy gave her friend a quick, brief smile as they stopped at a red light. "And even if he were my full brother, I'd still slap him stupid for what he said to you. Yes, the man is an idiot, and I can only hope that he doesn't get the stupid genes from _my_ side of the family."

Ami chuckled at that, glad for Mercy's presence with her at the moment. If she had been driving alone, she would have caused more than her own fair share of vehicular accidents - she was simply too mad to stay in control of the wheel at the moment.

Ever since that night when she and her fiancé (currently _ex_-fiancé, she reminded herself) Alec Marvail had discussed where they would live after the wedding - a night when Ami had yanked off her engagement ring and stuffed it into Alec's open mouth - everything seemed to have gone downhill from there. She was only too glad to be able to get away from Alec for the time being by going to Las Vegas. While she knew that the man would most likely be staying with Mercy in the house they had rented in Las Vegas' posh district, at the very least he would be out of her hair while she made arrangements with the Cirque du Soleil.

For some strange reason, her near-death encounter six months ago had garnered her more fame and attention than her work ever had. Or rather, it put her work on the map. People were suddenly curious about why Landowe was so fascinated with her and her work - enough to go all psycho and kill innocent people in such an artistic manner. Gruesome, yes, but artistic nevertheless.

After all, it takes some sense of high aesthetic appreciation to be able to take Edgar Allan Poe's works and use them as a sort of guidebook about how to murder people.

She was thankful to many people for helping her live to see this day, when the famous Cirque du Soleil in Las Vegas would adopt her music and choreography. She was glad for Mercy and Tony, who worked at the crime lab day in and day out trying to figure out who was committing the murders. She was thankful for Malena, Isis, Blanca and Marsh, who protected her through hell and high water, even when a few of them nearly lost their lives or reputations.

But she was most grateful for Mercy's half-brother, Alec. He was the one who protected her when everyone else was not around. He was the one who went nuts trying to find her when Landowe finally _did_ get to her. He was the one who saw her through every single stage of her emotional and mental recuperation after the event, and through Landowe's trial.

She scowled. After what happened a few nights ago, she was willing to forget a lot of things about Alec Marvail.

"Alec should know that there is no way in hell that I am going to part with the Philippines," she muttered. "I love my family there, and my life there too. He knows he should never ask me to part from those, of all things!"

Mercy sighed in understanding. "I know. He keeps on telling me that I should spend my vacations in Italy rather than in the Philippines, but I grew up spending my summers there and not in the villa on the Riviera. Besides," here she wrinkled her nose, "at least in the Philippines people don't care a rat's ass about me being Countess and all. There I can be normal - the same way that I can work here in the United States and be normal. I can't, and never will, have the same freedom in Italy."

Ami smiled sympathetically. The poor girl had a lot to deal with. Aside from her job as a crime scene investigator, she had to go back to Venice at least once a year, just to ensure the Italian gentry that the Countess di Salmileri was still alive and kicking. Alec had always been insistent about Mercy taking those trips, even when the girl didn't want to.

Realizing that if she kept thinking about Alec her blood pressure would shoot right through the roof, she instead turned her attention to Mercy's life - and why she was in Las Vegas in the first place. "So, why'd Tony send you down here all of a sudden?" She smiled wickedly. "Hard to imagine him being able to bear having your presence gone from the lab."

Mercy rolled her eyes, and replied, "He's coming down here in a few days, so he really won't be alone for long. As for me having to be here, well...it's a little complicated, and Tony told me not to talk about it to anyone - even to you and Alec."

Ami blinked. This is new, she thought. Usually Tony and Mercy didn't mind sharing the details of the cases that they were working on at the crime lab with Alec and Ami. Sometimes, the four of them would get together, just to check if Ami and Alec would catch or notice something that Mercy and Tony might have missed. "What is it about, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Well, apparently the Las Vegas crime lab is dealing with a spate of murders that are mimicking the ones that happened in DC," Mercy explained slowly. "So Tony sent me down here, along with the files and documentations, so that we could help in figuring the whole thing out before the killer strikes again."

Ami nodded, and didn't push the issue - for the time being, at least. She would let Mercy have her peace for now.

They eventually pulled up in front of the Bellagio Hotel, where Ami would be staying for the time being. She grinned when she saw the facade. "Reminds you of home, doesn't it, Merce?"

Mercy wrinkled her nose again. "This is _nothing_ like the Veneto. The real Veneto has _class_ - this is all flash and none of the class."

Ami laughed as she slid out of the car. "Bitter, are we?"

"Out, Tejada."

Ami laughed aloud, and got out of the front seat. A bellhop came over, and started unloading her luggage from the trunk of Mercy's car. After that had been done, Ami slammed the trunk shut, and tapped it twice to signal to Mercy that she could leave.

She stood there for a moment, watching as Mercy's taillights disappeared around the corner. And then, with a sigh, she turned around, and headed towards the reception desk so she could check in and settle down for a good night's sleep.


	3. Episode Three: Signorina

**Episode Three: Signorina**

_10:30 A.M. Monday, December 8: Las Vegas_

Mercy carefully eased her car into an unoccupied parking slot, and shut the car down. She sighed, staring at the wheel for a moment, before raising her head to look up at the building in front of her.

The Las Vegas Crime Lab, she thought. It would be her base of operations for the meantime, at least until these murders were solved. Sliding her sunglasses over her face, she snatched up her bag, got out of her car, and headed for the front door.

A short man in his late fifties or so was standing there, a badge displayed prominently on his coat. She offered him a courteous smile. "Detective Jim Brass, I presume?"

The man returned her smile, and nodded. "And you would be the CSI that Wright send down here. You're...ah...Ms. di Salmileri, aren't you?"

"Yes, that would be me. But please, just call me Mercy." The two of them shook hands briefly, before Brass nodded towards the door. "So, shall we?"

Mercy smiled, and the two of them entered the door. The clean, almost astringent smell of cleansers hit Mercy's nose, mingled with the coolness of the air conditioning. She relaxed, realizing that she was in somewhat familiar territory.

"Welcome to the Las Vegas Crime Lab," Brass said as he waved his hand around. He gazed at her for a while, before he offered a small smile. "Nervous?"

Mercy shrugged. "A little. It's kind of like the lab at DC, but still, unfamiliar territory and all. Don't know the people I'll be working with. Who's the supervisor, by the way?"

"That would be Dr. Grissom."

Mercy blinked. "Dr. Gil Grissom? _The_ Dr. Grissom?"

Brass smiled. "I see you've heard of him."

"More of his reputation as an entomologist. One of my professor friends has wanted to meet up with him and discuss the application of entomology in forensics."

"Really? Let me guess: Harvard?"

"University of Padua," Mercy replied with a shake of her head.

"Isn't that in Italy?"

"Yes, it is."

Brass didn't respond anymore, because now they were standing in front of an office door. Through the glass window of the door, Mercy could see a man who seemed to be in his late forties or early fifties sitting behind a desk, and peering intently at a spider inside a plastic case. She recognized the analytical, intelligent glint in the man's eye: it was one that she had seen often enough in Tony's eyes, and, if she were to really admit it to herself, men who had that spark in their eyes tended to attract her in more ways than one.

After all, that was why she was attracted to Tony in the first place.

Brass tapped on the doorframe, causing the man to look up from his spider. "Grissom, your guest has arrived."

Mercy smiled cordially as she stepped forward. "Dr. Grissom. It is an honor to meet you."

The man returned her smile, putting down the plastic case as he stood up. "A pleasure to meet you, Miss...?"

"Mercia di Salmileri. But please, just call me Mercy."

Grissom nodded. "I see. Mercy. Please, have a seat."

Mercy glanced at the chair his hand was directing her to, and she sat down on it. The moment Grissom was sitting down, she went straight to business. "My boss told me about the serial killings that were going on down here."

She noted the way Grissom's jaw clenched slightly when she spoke of the serial killings. As she had suspected, they weren't having an easy time at it. "We've had two killings thus far, both of them young women."

"I know. Anthony briefed me on what had happened so far." She paused a moment, and then continued. "What's your current status?"

"Well, we have two notes, and not much else," Grissom replied as he leaned back into his chair. "We recovered some fibers on Evelyn Tyler's - the second victim's - clothes: black wool, most likely from a sweater or knit fabric of some sort, but it's too common to point to someone in particular."

Mercy sighed. She had expected that. "Clean. Too clean. It's like Landowe all over again." She looked up at Grissom. "Dr. Grissom-"

"Please, just Grissom."

"Grissom, I hope you're prepared for a long and complicated investigation. While this is indeed a killer who is copying the style of someone else, there will almost certainly be a difference in the way this person executes each crime."

Grissom nodded. "Different people, different styles."

"Exactly," Mercy said with a nod. "But I am prepared to help as much as I can in this. I do not want innocent people getting hurt any more than you do. When he's finished arranging things, Anthony will be coming down here to help too."

"Now why would he do that?" Grissom asked, raising his eyebrow slightly.

Because he doesn't want me out of his sight for too long, Mercy thought, but of course did not say that. Instead, she replied: "He and I worked together to solve the case. There are things that he knows that even I can't explain to you, in spite of my involvement."

Grissom nodded thoughtfully. After a moment of silence, he looked up at Mercy, his eyes betraying his anxiety. "Is it really that bad?"

"I wish I could say that it isn't," Mercy said slowly, "but I can't lie about the situation. If this is indeed what I think it is, then it's only bound to get worse."

Grissom fell silent again, and this time Mercy sensed that he was thinking, trying to process her bad news. She couldn't blame him, really: he probably realized that he _had_ to allow more murders to be committed before they caught the killer. It was something that Mercy had realized four killings into the case six months ago, and while she had rebelled at the idea, Tony had talked some sense into her and told her not to rush things.

In the meantime, she glanced around the office. Entomologist to the core, she thought with a small smile. Dr. Gil Grissom had quite an impressive collection of bugs, both dead and alive. Apart from the tarantula in its plastic case, she noted that there were three more tarantulas nearby in their own cases, along with a large collection of live beetles and - much to her dismay - cockroaches. She shuddered, feeling her skin crawl at seeing the icky things crawling around in a small aquarium.

"Let me guess: you don't like bugs either?"

Mercy snapped back to attention, and looked at Grissom, who was giving her a small half-smile. Obviously, he had noticed her staring at his roaches. "Ah...no, not really. Insects don't really bother me so much. But cockroaches - now _those_ things are an entirely different cup of tea."

"But cockroaches are some of the most incredible survivors in the world. They have been around since before the time of the dinosaurs, and are able to survive nuclear fallout. I find their tenacity impressive."

"Yes, well, I curse that tenacity, especially when I find one of them on my kitchen floor, and no matter how much bug spray I use, they simply refuse to croak."

Grissom chuckled, and shook his head. He stood up, and walked around his table. "I think it would be a good idea if I introduced you to the rest of the team."

Mercy smiled. "I would like that very much."

"Are you really so desperate to get away from my cockroaches?"

"What if I said that was a yes?"

Grissom shrugged, though there was the hint of a smile playing on his lips. "I can't blame you." He stepped up to the door, and held it open for her. "Ladies first."

Mercy smiled at him, and stepped out, waiting for him to close the door and walk ahead of her to lead the way.

* * *

"Have you seen that new model from Milan? Oh man, she was just _hot_!"

Catherine Willows looked up to watch as Greg Sanders, the lab technician, raved about something - or rather, _someone_ - to his friend and Catherine's fellow CSI, Nick.

Nick was eyeing Greg with a look of skepticism. "Whom are you talking about, man?"

"Ciara, Ciara di Salmileri," Greg replied, and the grin on his face seemed almost a mile wide. "Saw her on TV last night. God, she's _perfect_ - beautiful black hair, gorgeous brown eyes, sexy smile, and a pair of legs that just seem to go on for eternity!"

Warrick Brown, another CSI, spoke up then. "Hate to be a wet blanket Greg, she's _way_ out of your league. I mean, a _model_?"

"And I hear she's dating Leonardo di Caprio," Sara piped up from where she was sitting across the table from Catherine.

Greg shrugged off their comments. "Hey, a man can dream can't he?"

"You know," Catherine began, "I don't really know what you guys see in models. What is it about them that just lures you in?"

Greg laughed. "Cath, Ciara di Salmileri isn't your ordinary model. She's actually-"

Just then, the door of the Break Room swung open, and Grissom walked in. But what Catherine found somewhat surprising was that there was someone walking behind him.

"People, there is someone I would like to introduce to you." Grissom stepped aside, allowing a woman to step into the room.

Catherine's powers of observation kicked into gear - which was not unusual, since she was a CSI. The woman was quite small, standing at around five-foot-four, and had a slim build. Her long black hair was tied back in a low ponytail near the base of her head, thus revealing the angles and lines of her face. Her eyes were dark brown, and quite large, giving the impression that she was younger than Catherine believed. The woman's clothes were simple, but they spoke of class: black slacks, a white sleeveless cotton-knit top, a white cardigan tied around her waist, and black low-heeled sandals. She wasn't wearing any makeup, and her only accessories were two diamond studs in her ears, a watch around her left wrist, and a medium-sized black leather bag.

Grissom spoke again. "This is Mercia di Salmileri. She's the CSI from Washington who will be helping us solve the Poe Murders. Mercy, these are Warrick Brown, Nick Stokes, Sara Sidle, and Catherine Willows. Nick and Sara are the ones who are currently involved in the case. And the kid in the lab coat is Greg Sanders. He's the lab technician here."

Mercia smiled, revealing even, white teeth as she inclined her head slightly in greeting. "A pleasure to meet all of you. And please, just call me Mercy."

There was silence for a while, and then Greg smiled broadly, and said, "I cannot believe this. Who would have ever thought that _you_ would be a CSI?"

Catherine watched as an almost icy glint came over Mercy's countenance. "And what's so hard to believe about that?"

Greg raised his hands in surrender, though the smile never left his face. "I didn't mean to insult you or anything, but... Aren't you Mercia Stella Fiammeta di Salmileri?"

Catherine blinked as she looked at Mercy, whose jaw had dropped slightly as she stared at Greg. "How did you get my full name?" the younger woman asked, stunned.

"You're the older sister of Ciara Julia Celeste di Salmileri, right?"

"Yes. And how did you find _that_ out?"

Nick blinked as he looked at Greg. "Wait: wasn't the name of that model you were raving about a while ago named Ciara di Salmileri?"

"Greg," Grissom began, his voice carrying a warning tone, "what are you trying to get at?"

Greg chuckled. "As I was going to say to Catherine a while ago before Gris arrived, Ciara di Salmileri wasn't just an ordinary model. I did some research on the Internet, and I found out that she is the younger sister of a Mercia Stella Fiammeta di Salmileri, who, by the way, carries the title of Countess di Salmileri in Italy." He glanced at Mercy, giving her what Catherine thought was supposed to be a charming smile. "My friends, we are in the presence of a member of the old Italian aristocracy."

Catherine turned to look at Mercy. Surely it couldn't be true. She could believe this whole business of Mercy being related to the model Greg was so fond of, in spite of the fact that Mercy didn't quite look like she could be related to a model, given her rather plain looks. But – a countess?

"Please tell me he's making all of this up," Sara said.

And then, much to her surprise, Mercy sighed wearily, and sank down into a chair. "He's not," she said softly. "I'd hoped to keep it quiet, or at least something that stayed behind in Italy, but I guess there's no use running from it." She sat up straighter. "Yes, I am the Countess di Salmileri, and Ciara Julia Celeste is my younger sister."

"Oh I knew it, this is so cool!" Greg enthused. He looked eagerly at Mercy. "So how are we supposed to address you? My Lady di Salmileri, or something?"

Mercy gave him a stern glance. "No one is going to call me My Lady, Countess, or even Signorina. The reason why I left Italy to study and work here in the United States was so I could get away from my life there. I only want to be treated normally, and the way things stood back home, I wouldn't ever get away from all the damn preening that I had to do as Countess, and from the irritating folks who didn't have anything better to do in their lives than gossip about who just had their boobs done or who made out with who in God knows where."

Catherine bowed her head to hide the smile on her face. This is surprising, she thought, somewhat amused, and somewhat relieved. There was no denying the heat in Mercy's voice when she spoke about her position in Italy. There was obviously vehemence there, an underlying irritation and annoyance at that sort of life, one that most people would kill to have. While the vehemence amused her, it also relaxed her. This was someone who would try to be normal at all costs, who would try to prove her worth not by pulling rank or reputation, but by doing her best.

An almost brittle silence settled in at that moment, which Grissom broke by clearing his throat. "I think it would be best if we got to work." He glanced at Mercy. "Mercy, Brass told me that you would be coming here with the documentation from the Landowe investigation?"

Mercy nodded, and stood up. "It's in my car, but I'll need some help bringing it in."

Grissom nodded. "Warrick, you go and help bring it in. Mercy, is there any specific equipment that we'll need?"

"No, nothing at the moment. We have a videotape of Landowe's confession, but Anthony will be the one to bring it." She quirked a small smile. "I think this is the best place to go through the documents. You'll want to get as comfortable as you can when you study the papers."

Catherine raised an eyebrow. "That many?"

"Yes, that many."

Catherine groaned softly as she turned around, grabbing a nearby empty mug and proceeding to fill it with coffee. It looked like this was going to take quite a while.

* * *

Warrick watched as Mercy walked slightly in front of him, slightly beside him, her strides purposeful and graceful in their own way. It wasn't the walk of a woman who sashayed down catwalks, but that of a woman who was used to getting where she had to go and doing what she had to do - whether she liked it or not.

He smiled to himself, shaking his head slightly so as not to attract any attention from her. What he found out a while ago was still quite shocking, and he was trying to get used to the idea that they were dealing with an authentic Italian countess.

He cleared that thought out of his head right that instant. Authentic, as if she was an antique of some sort. There had to be something wrong with _that_ particular way of thinking.

"Here we are," she said softly as they stopped beside a rather plain-looking white BMW.

Warrick blinked. He had expected a snazzy Italian roadster, not a BMW. "This your car?"

Mercy looked up to smile at him. "Yeah." She raised an eyebrow at him. "What, were you expecting something a little flashier?"

"Well...yeah. I mean, you know, you being a countess and all, I half-expected a stretch limo waiting out here. Or a Ferrari."

Fortunately, Mercy laughed as she slid her key into the trunk's lock. "I left the stretch limo back in Italy, and as for the Ferrari...I have a red one back in Washington, and a Jaguar too, but I don't like using them except when I'm on leave. This one I borrowed from a friend of my brother." She turned the key, and lifted the trunk lid, revealing four boxes in the trunk itself.

"You have a brother?" Warrick asked as he picked up two boxes, while Mercy took the other two.

"Yeah. Half-brother, if we wanted to be accurate, and older than me." As she spoke, she put down the two other boxes on the pavement at her feet, and closed the trunk. After she did so, she hefted the boxes into her arms again, and the two of them made their way back to where Grissom and the others were.

Warrick nodded, pushing the doors open for the two of them when they got there. "Really? How much older?"

"Hmmm..." Mercy paused, and then replied, "Around twenty years older than me, I think."

Warrick nearly dropped the boxes he was carrying. "_That_ old! Meaning no offense Mercy, but at that age he's old enough to be your dad."

"My father was pretty old when I was born, so I don't think it's a surprise," Mercy replied, a small smile quirking on her lips. "Papa was forty-three when I was born, and forty-six when my sister came along. He died a couple years ago, at sixty. Smoking finally did him in."

Warrick nodded, knowing what that meant. "Sorry about your dad."

Mercy shrugged, showing that it was okay. Warrick moved on to the next obvious question. "How'd you find out that you had a half-brother?"

"It was because of Papa's will," Mercy began. "He split the inheritance three ways. Until that time I didn't know that I had an older sibling, until Alec came along at the request of the lawyer. To cut a long story short, him and I became pretty close, and have been so ever since. We're sharing the house I'm staying at while I'm here in Las Vegas."

"So you mean he's with you right now?"

"Yup. Thinks it's his sworn duty as an older brother never to let me out of his sight or something. Jeez, as if I didn't get by without him for nearly twenty years. Must be his British upbringing..."

Warrick raised an eyebrow at that. British? He was about to ask about that, but then they got back to the Break Room, where the others were waiting, and he had to put the question on hold for the meantime.

* * *

_5:49 P.M. Monday, December 8: Las Vegas_

Grissom sighed as he looked at the evidence and documentation that Mercy had brought with her, and compared it to what they had by way of evidence: nothing more than two scraps of paper that could tell them almost nothing about the killer.

Or couldn't they?

He glanced up at Mercy, noticing that she was studying the notes intently. "Have you got any ideas?"

Mercy was silent for a while, and when she spoke, her voice was hushed. "Well, for one thing, our copycat planned the murders very, very carefully, but didn't really care about the presentation of his or her clues."

Catherine looked up at her. "What do you mean?"

"Here." Mercy reached into the box labeled "Evidence," and pulled out a small bundle of paper scraps. "These are the paper clues Landowe placed on the crime scenes." She leafed through them a moment, and after a moment, plucked one out of the bunch, and placed it next to the paper containing the quote from "The Cask of Amontillado."

Immediately, Grissom noticed the difference. He frowned. "The font on the paper we found is different from the one that came from Washington."

Mercy nodded, and a small smile appeared on her face, obviously pleased. "Right. The ones Landowe made were typed using Dauphin, a script-style font. The ones you found are typed in Times New Roman. Now, using Dauphin to type with indicates a leaning towards the aesthetic, and having the time to plan everything properly. On the other hand, using Times New Roman - which is a default typing font - indicates that the notes you found were typed in a rush, and with hardly any consideration for aesthetics save that they be readable.

"And the way the paper's cut to size is different too." She touched the edge of the paper that came from Washington. "This one was cut cleanly and precisely, using a pair of good quality scissors or cutter. They're also almost perfectly straight: measure them with a T-square and I bet that they'd line up pretty well.

"But the ones you found are different." She touched the edge of the paper they had found at Nancy di Gallo's feet. "It looks torn instead of cut, as if someone didn't bother with scissors or a cutter anymore, and just used a ruler to help in tearing out the excess. And I'm pretty sure that if we lined this up with a T-square, it'd be nowhere near precise."

Grissom saw Warrick's frown. "But what does that tell us? That the copycat's not as obssesive-compulsive as the orignal killer?"

"Precisely," Mercy said as she leaned back, biting the inside of her lip as she stared at the paper scraps. "Our current murderer isn't doing this because he or she wants to make a statement. That was Landowe's purpose: to make a statement."

"Because of that," Grissom continued, as he picked up on Mercy's thoughts, "every single detail of the murders was plotted out very carefully, bordering on obsessive-compulsive, as Warrick said. But that's quite typical of artists; they tend not to be satisfied with anything that's less than perfect."

"But the papers we found are definitely less than perfect," Sarah murmured. She squinted at the evidence momentarily. "Maybe they were in a rush?"

Grissom shook his head. "No, I do not think so. He or she had enough time to plan the murders, so there would have to have been enough time to cut the papers properly too. It _does_ mean that he or she has another purpose for killing, and it's not to make a statement of any sort."

Catherine puffed out a breath of air, and offered a small smile. "Well, at least that eliminates one possible motive."

Mercy frowned, and shook her head as she closed her eyes, rubbing the bridge of her nose as if to fight off an oncoming headache. "Your murderer may have adopted the same M.O. as Landowe, but the motive is completely different. It's a little scary."

"Why do you say that?" Nick asked as he picked up the scrap of paper that had been found with Evelyn Tyler.

"I can more or less predict this person's next move if he or she were in some way like Landowe. The thing is, it isn't that way at all."

Grissom kept his eyes focused on the tabletop in front of them, that was now littered with sheets of paper containing various information that was related to the case. He had held some vague sense of hope that Mercy would be able to approach this case confidently, since she had handled the original in Washington, but has he had foreseen that was a little too much to hope for.

He sighed, and rubbed his eyes. "Well, I guess there isn't much for us to do right now. Mercy, would it be alright with you if we kept the evidence from the Landowe case here in the lab?"

Mercy shrugged. "Sure, fine by me. Better here than at home." Her cell phone rang, and she grimaced. She moved away from the group, and answered the call. After a few minutes, she came back, a tired look on her face. "That was my brother. He wants me to come back already and rest my jetlag off. Is it okay if I go now?"

"It's alright," Grissom said. She did look quite fatigued now, and it would probably be a good idea to send her home so she could rest. "You'll come by tomorrow again?"

"Yeah, of course." She helped them pack up the stuff that they had pulled out of the boxes she had brought, and then she headed to the door. She paused beside it a moment, and smiled at them all. "It was nice meeting you people. And…please, keep the whole Countess thing under wraps, okay?"

Grissom nodded. "We'll keep it quiet."

Mercy smiled gratefully. "Thanks. See you tomorrow." She opened the door, and slid out of it, walking down the hall towards the exit.

"Phew! That's done," Nick said as he patted the box in front of him. "Nothing till tomorrow."

Grissom shook his head, and reached into his pocket. "Actually, we're not quite done yet. I have a couple of assignments to hand out."

Everyone groaned, but nevertheless listened to him as he announced who would take what.

"Nick, Warrick, I want you to handle this one..."


	4. Episode Four: On the Home Front

Episode Four: On the Home Front 

_7:03 P.M. Monday, December 8: Las Vegas_

He was at his computer, reading his emails, when he saw the yellow glow of headlights flash briefly against the thin off-white curtains that hung over his window. At more or less the same time, he heard the sound of the garage door going up, followed by the quiet hum of a car engine and the soft crunch of wheels over gravel as she parked her car in the garage.

He checked the clock on his computer, noting that it was just a couple minutes past seven, which meant that, contrary to what she told him, she was still at the Las Vegas crime lab when he called her. He speculated that she had been caught in rush hour traffic on her way home, which was why it had taken her a long time to get back.

That girl just works too damn hard for her own good, he thought with a shake of his head as he stood up from his computer chair, and made his way down to the ground floor, just in time to hear the front door open as she stepped inside and out of the cold December air.

He stood at the top of the stairs, and crossed his arms as he watched her shake off her jacket. "I thought you said you were on the way back home when I called?"

Mercy looked up at him, blinked momentarily, and crinkled her nose while waving her hand at him. "I had some business to take care of, okay? I'm sorry I lied to you, but we were in the middle of looking at the evidence when you called. Besides, I couldn't just leave them simply because you called me."

He smirked then. "You're not in boarding school anymore, Merce. You don't have to ask permission to leave."

She rolled her eyes as she walked past him up the stairs, heading towards her room. "I know I'm not in boarding school anymore, but at least I remember the rules of common courtesy, Alec."

Alec Marvail winced slightly at the way she said his name. There's something afoot, he thought as he followed his younger half-sister to her room, though he stopped at the doorway while she went in. "Why do you sound so snappish?" He grinned. "Is it that time of the month again?"

Mercy turned around to glare at him. "What is it with you men that you blame female aggressive tendencies on 'that time of the month?' For your information, the hormone that triggers PMS in females is present in our systems only once a month; in men, it's present _all the time_."

"Where did you learn that?"

"Long story."

"You are a bitch, did you know that?"

"And you're a bastard, so we're even."

Now Alec knew something was up. When he called her a bitch, she always smiled sweetly at him and said that she was taking it as a compliment. But now she was not doing that - rather, she was throwing insults right back at him. "Why are you so tetchy, eh? You've been like that ever since we left Washington."

"You really want to know?" Mercy's bland voice echoed to him from her bathroom, where Alec knew she was changing out of the clothes she wore to work and into something more comfortable.

Even though Alec's gut screamed at him not to push the question, his curiosity got the better of him, so he had to ask. "Yes."

Mercy walked out of the bathroom wearing a pair of rather worn cotton jogging pants, a loose T-shirt, and a pair of white slippers. She fixed him with a withering stare, and said: "The air is cleaner in Sheffield."

Alec winced. His instincts were right after all. It had nothing to do with work, and it certainly had nothing to do with PMS. Oh no, it had _everything_ to do with something that was a lot more personal: Ami Tejada.

When he did not respond, Mercy rolled her eyes in what he recognized as a supreme look of annoyance before she strode past him, her legs carrying her quite quickly out of the room and down to the ground floor. "Merce, I can explain-"

"There is _nothing_ to explain," Mercy cut in, not looking at him as he jogged after her towards the kitchen. "I mean, how could you be so _stupid_? 'The air is cleaner in Sheffield'... You should have known better!"

Alec watched as she whipped out a saucepan from one of the shelves, wincing again when she put it on the stove with a bang. She's really mad now, he thought. "Merce, I really didn't think she would take it that way. I thought she'd be delighted to be living in Sheffield."

Mercy crossed to the other side of the kitchen, throwing the door of the refrigerator open a tad more violently than she was supposed to. Luckily, none of the eggs that Alec knew were arranged along the shelves on the inside door of the fridge rolled out. "That's the whole point, Alec: _you didn't think_. You _know_ that she loves the Philippines; you _know_ that you should have asked her first about living in Sheffield instead of there; you _know_ that you should always, _always_ consult her first before you make a decision that could change her life - but do you do that? No: you just went out there, bought the house, and decided to tell her two fucking days before the wedding that she isn't going to be living in the country she grew up in almost all her life - without, mind you, asking her first if that was what she wanted."

Days of frustration and anger finally came to a head, and Alec snapped. "What was I supposed to bloody do then!" he demanded angrily as Mercy strode back to the stove, emptying one of the jars of pasta sauce she had made back in Washington and taken with her to Las Vegas. "Let her go back to that sorry dump of a country?"

Now that ticked Mercy off. She paused in the middle of chopping the sprigs of rosemary she was going to throw into the sauce, which she had left on the stove. She turned her head slowly, her eyes flaring with angry fire. "Don't you _dare_ say that ever again, Alec Marvail."

Alec knew that tone: it meant that Mercy was really, _really_ angry, and that if he went on any further, he'd have a lot more on his plate than just his favorite half-sister angry at him for her best friend's sake. Besides, the knife in her hand was starting to look just a little too shiny.

He swallowed, trying to get his temper under control. After counting ten breaths to calm down, he said, in a low, controlled tone: "I just thought that she would be happier in England. Sheffield's beautiful."

"I know Sheffield's beautiful, but that's not the issue here," Mercy said as she swept up the chopped rosemary in her hands, and dumped the whole lot of it into the sauce. Taking a wooden spoon from one of the drawers nearby, she continued, "She would love to live in England. Hell, she'd live in Tibet, as long as she was with you. But the thing is, you didn't ask her first, when you should have."

Alec watched as Mercy stirred the now-simmering sauce, noticing her more violent emotions slowly bleeding out of her. "Ami loves the Philippines," she continued. "She has family there, and friends too. She's got a life there, and she did very well without you in that life. You can't just ask her to give up something she's known for a longer time than she's ever known you."

Alec sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. "I know, I know. It's just that..." He groaned. "God Merce, she didn't have to call off the wedding!"

Much to his relief, Mercy offered a small smile - a rather ironic one, but a smile all the same. "I think she had every right to call off the wedding, for the meantime, at least, after what you said. I'd have done the same thing too, if Tony had done the same thing."

"What, you mean the bloke has proposed already? How come I didn't know about that?"

Mercy narrowed her eyes at him, though there was no danger in her eyes now. "He _did not_, Alec. It's only been what... Six months? And don't change the subject." She turned the flame of the stove off, and headed back to the fridge.

Alec walked to the stools that were arranged around the middle counter of the kitchen, grabbing plates, cutlery, wineglasses, and an opened bottle of red wine along the way. "What am I supposed to do then? Neither you nor I know where she is. What if she gets in trouble again?"

It was an unpleasant thought, but it had occurred to him more than once before. The incident with Landowe had taught him never to let Ami out of his sight, but now, she had virtually disappeared from right under his nose.

And all because I was a being an arse and just had to do something incredibly stupid, he thought morosely as he poured himself and his sister a glass of wine each. He drained his glass in one gulp, and proceeded to fill it again as Mercy approached with a colander filled with steaming spaghetti noodles - she had placed the colander under a hot water tap, and ran hot water over the cold-from-the-fridge noodles, thus reheating them, but not overcooking them.

"Oh, I don't think you need to worry about her," Mercy said, her voice a cheerful tone that told Alec she knew something he didn't. "Wherever she is, she's fine."

Now was Alec's turn to glare at his sister, his green eyes flashing at her through the steam that rose from the spaghetti noodles she placed on his plate. "You know where she is, don't you?"

"Of course I do," Mercy, replied as she sat across the counter from him, taking a sip from her wine as she ladled pasta sauce over her spaghetti noodles and sprinkled some slivers of parmesan cheese over it all. She popped a sliver of the cheese into her mouth before adding: "I'm her best friend, after all."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Alec demanded. "I'm her fiancé; I have a right to know where she is right now!"

"Um, I think you're her _ex_-fiancé now - as far as I can recall, she gave the ring back to you."

"I am still her fiancé, damn it! And I have a right to know where she is."

"I'm not telling you. She made me promise not to tell you, and personally, I think she's right. Let's just say that I know where she is, and that she's perfectly safe."

Alec groaned, resisting the urge to just bury his face in his dinner and suffocate himself to death. He should have _known_ Mercy would know.

"Oh come on Alec, cheer up!" Mercy said brightly. She chewed her mouthful of pasta, swallowed, and smiled at him as he looked at her. "At least you know that she's safe. There's nothing to worry about: once she cools down a little, everything will be back to normal."

"It's not the same as having her with me," he muttered, ladling sauce over his noodles and stirring them around lazily.

Mercy snorted. "I think it's better that the two of you have some time to cool off. If I have to spend one more night under the same roof with you two when you're in one of your 'moods,' I think I'd go crazy. At least Tony and I have the decency to go to _his_ place when things get a little hotter than usual."

Alec glared at her, but after a moment, he smirked, and shook his head. "Maybe you do have a point there, Mercy."

"Of course I do. I always do."

"Watch your ego, Mercy."

"Alec? Just shut up and pass me the wine."


End file.
